The Archer
by Mockingjay2001
Summary: Sherlock and John are investigating three murders, all by an arrow to the heart. Time's running out to solve this mystery when they find out the next target.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello readers, this is my first ever Sherlock fic. Please don't go ballistic on me if I get something wrong, I've only seen the first three episodes and read some Sherlock blogs and things like that. I don't own Sherlock, I only own the plot. **

Chapter 1

Sherlock stepped out of the black cab and onto the slippery London sidewalk, walking towards the yellow tape. John followed him, slower and less swift than Sherlock. They stood in the middle of Covent Garden, but right now it was empty.

"Freak's here" Sally announced into her comm as the two men ducked under the caution tape. The woman quickly followed. "Follow me". Sally lead them into the building. A man with red hair lay on the ground, a wood stick with feathers on the end protruding from his bloody chest. "Arthur Green, killed by arrow".

"Arrow?" John inquired as Sherlock slipped a pair of rubber gloves on.

"An arrow, but not like the modern archery arrow, but with a wood shaft-" Sherlock pulled the arrow out of the man's chest. John winced "-and a tip made of iron. The arrowhead was stained red with blood. Sherlock snapped a picture then took out a cloth and wiped the crimson liquid off of it to reveal a star engraved on the arrowhead. "Redwood shaft, Kiwi feathers at the end, very nice craftsmanship. Now, I haven't seen one of these in ages".

"You know who the murder is?" Sally asked. Sherlock was still examining the arrow. "Left handed judging by the scratch marks on the shaft, but…". He took out his phone and showed them the picture. "The archer wasn't standing in front of Mr Green, he was above him…" Sherlock trailed off, thinking.

"Sherlock…". John was pointing to one of the nearby buildings. There was a figure dressed in black standing on the ledge. Holding a bow. And the arrow was pointed directly at Sherlock.

**Dun, dun, dun! Cliffhanger! ;) Love it? Hate it? Grammer error? Please let me know and I'll fix it. **

**-MJ2001**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for reviewing. Sorry about my screw-ups, I had an idea at like three in the morning, then just started writing and published it but didn't really check it very well. Sorry about that. I don't own Sherlock, only the plot. Now onto the story!  
**

The figure let the arrow fly, and the target was Sherlock's head.

"Oh, so the archer is right handed, I got that wrong" Sherlock said, thinking out loud as John pushed him out of the way. The arrow was lodged into a nearby wall instead of skewering Sherlock's head. "Oi John, let me go! There's a message tied to the arrow!".

"What?" John turned to look at the arrow and was surprised to see a piece of paper rolled around the arrow, secured by a thin red ribbon. He released Sherlock who immediately scrambled for the piece of paper. John turned to find the figure in black, but he was gone.

"John, look at this!" Sherlock yelled. John walked over to Sherlock and he showed the doctor the message.  
'I'm not the archer, but I know the next target. Come and find me at the Cinnamon Club.  
-The Girl on Fire'.

* * *

The Girl on Fire

I checked my watch that Dad got me for my was 5:30, they had already had an hour to come. I finished my current drink, a vodka, and sighed. They had obviously decided not to come and I would have to do this by myself. I turned towards the doors and bumped into two men on my way out. One was Captain John Watson, I recognized him-he was Amy doctor, saw him Afghanistan a few years back (don't ask me what I was doing in Afghanistan, you don't want to know). The other was a tall man with curly dark hair. I would have guesses he was my dad, with the pale skin and grey eyes. But I know for a fact he's not, but life would be so much easier if he was. One can only dream of an easy life though.

"Sherlock Holmes?" I asked, raising a thin eyebrow. He nodded and I looked around. No one was there, except the one guy passed out on the table. I led them behind of the bar and to a shelf of various drinks. I picked up a bottle filled with amber liquid and the shelf moved aside to reveal a hidden corridor. I put it back and gestured for them to keep going. Once we stepped into the corridor, the shelf closed behind us. I walked down the corridor, went through seven rooms, ran through nineteen hallways and opened a five doors. Finally, we reached a door with Greek carved into the old wood. I turned the old iron doorknob and walked in, the two men following me. In the room sat a table with three chairs, one on the far side of the table, the other two on the side nearest to us. I walked over to the table and sat gracefully, folding my hands in my lap and crossing my legs at the ankle, like I have for the last twenty years. This was a safe room. No one could hear us or interrupt us, but I still had to be quick if I was going to make it to my next appointment.

Sherlock looked me up and down, never pausing anywhere. "You're British, but grew up in France. You're left handed and your nails are cut short, but painted black and manicured, which means you don't bite them but trim them-you type frequently. You're strong, but thin, you're a gymnast. Judging by your clothing, which is all very expensive brands, you are very wealthy. You dye your hair, which is really black instead of copper. Your eyes are wandering, which means you're not paying attention" he stated quickly. I blushed bright red at the comment.

"You're incorrect about the typing and the gymnastics _cherie_" I informed him.

"Oh" he frowned, clearly not used to being wrong.

"Sit" I told them. They sat down, Sherlock staring at me strangely.

"You look familiar" John said, breaking the silence.

"I should, but do you know who I am?'' I asked, a smile creeping onto my lips.

"No" Sherlock and John both answered.

"Good, we're keeping it that way if you want my help" I said.

"You said you know who the next target is, who is it?" Sherlock demanded, getting down to business. I took out a picture of a man that looked like he was in his late forties, early fifties."Do you know who _this_ is?" I asked tauntingly.

"It's the director of the _Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure,_ why?" Sherlock questioned.

"Because cherie-" I grinned "-he is the next target".


End file.
